The Lost Prophet
by yellowspraypaintedsmiles
Summary: Superwholock - When John finds a way to bring Sherlock back from the dead(or wherever he was) the Winchesters are recruited to investigate demonic interference in London. Turns out Sherlock is more of an oddity than everyone originally believed. A certain time-traveling, two-hearted alien can't miss out on the excitement.
1. Chapter 1

The Lost Prophet, Chapter 1

The Impala rattled over the speed bump, the jolt making Sam start awake. He glanced over at Dean, who stared impassively at the road, the moonlight barely illuminating the monotonous fields they rolled past. Yawning, Sam glanced at the dash, groaning when he saw that the time read 3:17. Dean turned his head.

"Finally. How ya feeling Sammy?" He sounded almost hesitant. Sam rolled his shoulders, wincing when the muscles on his back pulled. He took a deep breath before answering.

"Just a little sore. To be honest the wall had more damage than I do. Where are we?" He tried to change the subject.

"Kansas now. But how's your hand?" Dean didn't fall for it. Sam frowned looking down at his fingers. Even in the darkness he could see that the back of his hand and several of the fingers were black and purple, the knuckles bloody. He stretched the fingers apart slightly, and almost hissed when all of the joints popped. Dean looked over, seeming worried.

"_Fine._ Really. Nothing broken. I'm just a little beat up, seriously." He turned away, looking out the window, hoping Dean would let it go.

"Sammy, that thing threw you through a wall. _Through a wall._ This isn't a cartoon. If we hadn't just ganked it I swear to god I would _kill_ that thing. I want to get another state over and then I'll get us to a motel and fix you up. I should be taking you to a hospital. And if-" A shrill ringing sounded from the glove compartment, cutting Dean off. With his uninjured hand, Sam clicked open the hatch and pulled out a cell phone. Dean snagged it out of his hand and opened it, holding it to his ear without checking the caller ID. Before he could say anything, the caller spoke.

"Dean." The monotone voice greeted.

"Cas? What is it?" Dean sounded worried. The angel usually didn't bother with technology. Sam moved closer, trying to get his ear near the phone. For a moment, Castiel didn't say anything. Then,

"We have a problem."

_Three days earlier, London_

John was pacing again, walking the same path in the floor of the small flat that another pair of feet had used to tread. But it wasn't a small flat, it was large, too large, and empty. The clutter and books and worn furniture remained as they always had, John had never had the heart to clear it away. But the flat still seemed empty, and lonely. So he kept the clutter. There was even a jar of human eyes, buried in the depths of the freezer, which quite frankly disgusted John but he daren't clear them away. He would be furious if he came back and they were gone.

_If._ John froze, his brow furrowed and mouth serious. _If he came back_. Because he could. Because it was possible. Sherlock could come back. It had been months, _months_, though it sometimes felt like years, sometimes it felt like no time had passed at all. John imagined that Sherlock was with him. Some part of him was always aware of what Sherlock would be doing. John heard him constantly, pointing out things no one noticed, drawling in that sarcastic manner he had, making snide remarks about Anderson and Mycroft and… oh everyone. All those people who John had made no effort to see or speak to since before the funeral. He had ignored Molly even, though in the first few weeks afterwards she would come and knock at the door, and John would just stand in the flat and make no noise, and both of them would stand on either side of the door, listening to the other breath. When he never answered she eventually left, and something about it made him sad, hearing her timid footsteps retreat down the stairs. Mrs. Hudson was really the only person who had known Sherlock that John still talked to. Well, her and Sarah… But Sarah knew not to ever speak of him.

But Sherlock could come back. Maybe. But of course not, that was ridiculous, of course it wouldn't work. John had stumbled upon the website by accident, and had dismissed the thought immediately. He resumed pacing. Finding the site had been an accident, yes, and of course he knew better, such things were stupid to dwell on. But later, he had found himself thinking of it an awful lot. Making a deal. A deal that could bring Sherlock back. Now he thought of nothing else. Back and forth in his head, he went between chastising himself for thinking such a thing was possible, to single-mindedly and intensely _wanting_. He felt hollow, and sick. Part of him wanted to throw up and part of him wanted to smash everything in sight.

John paused again in his pacing, and locked eyes with the skull on the mantle. It grinned miserably at him. And that settled it. John strode over to the table, sinking down in front of the laptop, going back through his Internet history, unblinking. Even if the site was a joke, it wouldn't do any harm. And he was driving himself mad. He had to try. _There._ He found it, clicking on the link and holding his breath. The page loaded slowly. The background was black, and pentagram designs popped up on the side of the screen. The words were simple and white, standing out on the page. "How to Summon a Crossroad Demon –Bringing Back the Dead". John began reading.

Two hours later, night had fallen and the flat was dark. Mrs. Hudson had gone out for the evening and John knew he was alone. Even if nothing happened, no one would be there to witness his failure. He had chalked out a pentagram on the floor, and began lighting the candles. He checked that he had all the proper herbs and powders, and then checked the laptop again, reading over the page for the hundredth time, making sure everything was in place. He gave a nervous laugh, which rang loudly in the empty flat. He was being ridiculous, he knew. There was nothing sane about this, no logic could be applied here and if Sherlock could see him he would laugh. But Sherlock couldn't see him. The thought sobered him, and John turned back to the pentagram, burning the herbs, and started reciting.

The latin phrases were unfamiliar to him, but he had been practicing in bits and pieces throughout the day, so even if he wasn't pronouncing it properly, he managed to get through without stumbling or completely muddling the words. He finished and looked up, but nothing had appeared in the pentagram. The site had called it a devil's trap but it was basically a pentagram. John frowned. Nothing had happened. Absolutely nothing had happened. The pentagram was empty. He had known how farfetched the idea had been, how unlikely that there was any truth to it, but he sighed anyways, disappointed. His heart felt heavier than usual, and he was about to chastise himself out loud when something gave a little cough behind him. He spun, knocking over a candle, which guttered out.

In the archway to the kitchen stood the figure of a man, the dark silhouette, the night keeping him in shadows. The man stepped forwards, with dark hair and a sharp black suit, looking amused.

"Being summoned in itself is annoying, but the devil's trap?" He spoke softly. "The devil's trap is insulting. Lucky for you I didn't pop into it by accident."

John swallowed, staring wide eyed at the stranger. Part of him imagined that his daydreams had gone too far, had moved beyond just imagining Sherlock. Part of him thought that he had finally cracked, had finally gone insane. The stranger tapped his foot and raised an eyebrow, waiting. John just continued to stare, open-mouthed. The man sighed in annoyance.

"Well? Why did you summon me? This isn't typically the way to summon me if you want to make a deal, that usually involves actual crossroads, but judging by your rather… surprised look", the man glanced John up and down, disdainful, " I'm guessing that you have no real business with the king of Hell."

John swallowed. The candles made the stranger seem to flicker. He swallowed again and spoke, stammering.

"Yo-you, you're the king of Hell? I-I-I need to make a deal. For my friend." He straightened, gaining confidence. "I want Sherlock back."

The demon raised an eyebrow. He tilted his head, as if considering John. He tilted it the other way, as if appraising him. He sounded almost thoughtful when he answered.

"I could make you a deal… You know it would cost your soul? You would go automatically to hell. You'd have ten years to live before I come to collect though. Ten years with your…" He seemed amused, "_Friend_."

"Deal. Done. Whatever it takes. I want you to bring back Sherlock Holmes." John almost smiled. His soul, to hell? He had killed men in war. He drank, he sinned. If he had ever believed in heaven or hell, wouldn't he have assumed that was where he would end up anyways? The demon smiled.

"Wonderful. Sherlock you said? Of course you will have to-" he cut off, and his eyes narrowed, but he didn't seem to be looking at John. He turned, staring back into the kitchen, then turned back. "Sherlock Holmes? Do you mean Sherlock Holmes?" His voice was sharp, demanding. The demon stepped up close to John, staring him in the eyes.

"Yes? Yes! Sherlock Holmes, can you bring him back?" John stepped back from him, confused. The demon stared hard at him, then raised his eyebrows.

"Ah. I see. You think Sherlock Holmes is dead." He stated matter of factly.

"Th-think? What do you mean think? _He's alive?_" John couldn't breath, choking on the adrenaline that pumped though him. His hand stopped shaking for the first time since Sherlock had died. Or, rather, hadn't died.

"Not dead in the sense that I can bring him back from the dead, no. But I can bring him here. I can still bring you Sherlock Holmes. For whatever reason he decided it was better to be dead, I can make him change his mind. Or force him to give up the illusion anyways," he shrugged, uncaring, before adding cheerfully," All it will cost is your soul."

John nodded slowly. Any Sherlock is better than no Sherlock. Anything was better than no Sherlock. The demon grinned, straightening his suit jacket.

"Excellent. Now give me a kiss and I'll fetch him."

_Current time, Kansas_

Dean had pulled over, swerving into the dirt beside the road. His knuckles had clenched against the steering wheel. Sam leaned closer, trying to hear Cas through the phone.

"Crowley has found the lost prophet. They're in London. We need to find them." Sam leaned back and exchanged a look with Dean.

"What? Found the… What?" Dean sounded as confused as Sam felt. Sam didn't hear the next thing Cas said, but when Dean answered with coordinates, saying the name of the town they passed a few miles back, it became obvious that Cas was trying to find them.

"But, Cas wait! What were you – Cas! Cas? You there Cas? Cas you – God damn it. Well this is just awesome," Dean fumed turning to Sam, snapping the phone shut. The boys just stared at each other wide eyed for a moment.

"Did you hear…?" Dean started, and Sam nodded quickly.

"Did he say 'lost prophet'? What's that supposed to mean?" Sam wondered, but before Dean could reply there was a sharp rap on the driver's side door, making them both jump and turn sharply. Castiel's face was bent low and his nose was pressed awkwardly flat against the window, the rest of his face comically serious. His breath made the glass fog up.

"I have to talk to you." His monotone voice insisted, sounding strange and muffled through the window. Sam clambered out of the car immediately, but Dean had to wait for Castiel to move from in front of the door before he could open it and get out as well.

The air outside was bitterly cold and the stars shone weakly and distantly overhead. Dean stuck his hands in his pockets and hunched his shoulders against the brisk temperatures.

"Cas what the hell is going on? What the hell is a lost prophet? How do you guys lose a prophet?" Dean accused, and Cas frowned at being associated with the other angels. Sam walked over the same side of the car, leaning against the hood. Cas stared at them both intensely.

"The angels never lost the prophet, the prophet was lost. His name is one of the names that all angels know instinctively, but several thousand years ago we realized that his name was no longer on the list we had always known. This was back when God still was present in this world, and we assumed that something had made Him decide to not make the man a prophet. We didn't know the reason, but neither did we question it. This was back when Lucifer had been the only one of us to ever question God's will." He explained patiently, shrugging. Sam gawked at him, and Dean's mouth was hanging open. No one said anything for a moment. Sam finally cleared his throat.

"Um, so… What, what does that have to do with anything?" Castiel hesitated before replying, looking at the ground, as if deciding how much to say.

"Nothing. The man is not a prophet. The angels remembered his name though, and when he was born we took turns watching him, to see if he was something else, or if God had planned something special for him." He didn't seem inclined to say more. Dean gave him a questioning look. Cas remained silent.

"And? What happened?" Dean prompted. Castiel again looked away, gauging how much to say on the matter.

"Well." He paused. " He is not a normal human. I had a shift, watching him. When he was still a child. He is not a normal human. But he is no prophet or monster, normal or not he is simply human," Castiel added. Sam and Dean exchanged a look, before nudging Cas forwards again.

"Okay but what does this have to do with Crowley? And why is this such a big problem that you had to track us down?"

"That is where I've been, watching the lost prophet again. No particular reason, other than curiosity, but he was in Hong Kong when Crowley took him. I followed them to London. I believe that the lost prophet's friend made a deal with Crowley. I don't know what they're planning, but-"

"- But when anything the angels bother with, crosses paths with anything demons bother with, then something must be off," Sam finished, groaning internally. Dean was frowning at the ground, processing the information. Looking up, he opened and closed his mouth for a moment, as if trying to figure out what to say.

"Okay. Yeah. Obviously something must be going on. But, again, why did you have to track us down? Aren't the angels on this? Doesn't that mean that we should stay as far away as possible? I thought that angels barbequed any demons that came near their prophets." Dean spoke what Sam was thinking, but Cas narrowed his eyes and looked at them both like the answer should be obvious.

"He is the _lost prophet_. He is not a prophet. The angels stopped watching him years ago." His gravelly voice sounded almost sarcastic, like this information should be obvious. Dean, frustrated, threw his hands up and walked around to the back of the car. Sam sighed, exhausted and sore. His head hurt too much to process all this.

"I just don't know what we can do about it Cas. Dean and I are pretty busy over here, you know. Europe isn't really our territory…" Sam trailed off. Cas was giving one of his piercing stares, the usually calm angel becoming frustrated.

"What will it take for you to understand?" The angel spoke loudly enough for Dean to hear, "This is important enough for Crowley, doesn't that make it your business? I need your help with this." Dean stalked back over, evaluating the angel, before taking a deep breath and looking at his shoes. When he raised his head again, looking apologetic, Cas reached past him and touched Sam's forehead. A sigh of relief escaped the younger brother, and he rolled his shoulders, now less stiff. Cas stared Dean dead in the eyes.

"I help you whenever I can. I come when you call, if I can. This is important to me. Help me." Desperation had crept into his voice, and the fallen angel, who was shorter than the brothers already, suddenly seemed much smaller than usual. Dean looked over at Sam, at the now bruise-free face, and Sam could see the argument crumble in Dean's eyes.

The eldest laid a hand on Cas's shoulder, patting it quietly. It wasn't like the brothers had any right to turn down the angel. Yes, the three of them had screwed each other over in so many ways, but at this point they had all adopted the forgive and forget method of thinking, and the years had all earned them their revenges in one way or another. They were even enough.

"Alright Cas. Whatever you need."


	2. Chapter 2

**The Lost Prophet, Chapter 2**

** Hello again. I know it has been a bit of a wait, but it won't always take this long, I promise. Thank you to everyone who reviewed, that was lovely, keep it up! Hope you like this…**

The brothers both watched their food vacantly, exhaustion keeping them both silent. The empty diner had just the one waitress, a middle aged, pudgy woman who looked about as happy to be there as the cook, who had a permanent scowl on his face. Sam and Dean were the only customers, and the two staff played a casual game of poker on the far side of the room, next to the cash register. Cas had vanished from the roadside quite suddenly last night, saying he would find them again before taking them to London. Before the brothers could protest, the angel had gone and they had packed themselves back into the car to keep driving aimlessly.

Dean's head jerked up, and he tried to keep himself from nodding off again, reaching for the mug of coffee that stuck to the table, the bottom leaving a ring of spilled maple syrup. He tried a sip and made a face before choking a little and setting the mug down again, glaring with betrayal in his eyes.

"Lukewarm," he mumbled distrustfully. Sam cracked a smile, and swirled a spoon through the hardening oatmeal in front of him. Yawning, he asked his elder brother,

"How long are we supposed to wait? Do we have time to find a motel and crash or what?" Dean was shaking his head before Sam even finished speaking.

"You know as much as I do. I don't know what to think when it comes to Cas anymore. I never really did in the first place, but still. I say we take our chances and if we happen to be asleep when he calls then he can just wait until we get up. I think we've earned a little-" Dean's phone cut him off, and he glanced at the caller ID before sighing dramatically and putting his head down on the table, holding out the phone to Sam. Wearily, Sam answered.

"Cas? Are you-"

"Wrong! Try again Sam-bo." The familiar voice had Sam glaring at Dean's head, which was still down on the table, but his shoulders were shaking slightly in silent laughter.

"Garth. Hi." Sam mumbled unenthusiastically.

"Hey buddy, look, I was wondering if you guys were near California, because there's this weird thing that no one seems to…" Garth trailed off when Sam huffed into the phone. Trying not to sound as pissed as he felt, Sam replied,

"No. We are not near California and right now is a really bad time. Consider us off the grid for a while. We're busy Garth."

"But Sam, see I just-"

"We are _busy_ Garth."

"Right. I got that pal, but if you could just-"

"We are right in the middle of something Garth, just call someone else okay?"

"Could you just put Dean on the phone? He and I are friends-"

"Oh sure Garth, here's your friend Dean." Dean turned his head and glared at Sam, giving him the finger before taking the phone, all without actually taking his head off the table.

"What."

"Dean! How are you man?"

"Sorry Garth can't talk now the police just showed up bye." And he snapped the phone shut. His head remained on the table. Sam laughed, signaling the waitress that they were ready to go. He leaned back against the poorly padded booth and stretched. The door at the front of the diner rang distantly as more customers came in and Dean finally lifted his head from the table, taking out his wallet, anticipating the check.

Both the brothers did a double take when one of the customers who had just walked in pulled up a chair backwards at their booth. The man sat on his feet with his hands resting on the back of the chair, the childish position only looking stranger when the man beamed at them out of a very youthful face, a bowtie sloppily stuck into his collar, just grinning at the both of them. No one spoke for a while, Sam completely speechless and Dean just staring incredulously at the stranger. The man just perched in the chair smiling at the both of them, saying nothing.

The brothers exchanged a look, sure that the other was running through a list in their heads. Leviathan? Impossible, they had roasted Dick. Demon? Likely, but most were classier than this. Crazy human? Most probable, unfortunately. Dean cleared his throat. The man focused on him, the grin broadening.

"Can we help you?" He asked gruffly. The man's eyebrows, which were almost nonexistent next to the brown hair that swept across his large forehead, shot up in amusement.

"Oh no not me no, goodness no! I'm perfectly fine thanks. Oh but that's what you do, isn't it? Just go around helping people, and you take nothing for yourselves oh I adore that I really do, very rare with lots of people, but you both do it so well." The man sighed wistfully, and the brothers exchanged an alarmed glance, the stranger's accent revealing how strange he really was. Sam spoke up.

"You're British? Do we know you?"

"Oh ha, no no no, you don't know me. But I am a huge fan! Well not the whole gun thing, not a fan of that, but most of the time you're just killing what is already dead, keeping things from doing more harm, you know? And look at you both, so young, but you've saved the world several times over! Well so have I, but no need to boast or anything," the man giggled. Dean's mouth was hanging open. He snapped it shut and cleared his throat.

"Alright who are you and how do you know who we are? Are you a hunter?" The stranger laughed again, looking overjoyed to be talking to them.

"Naw, not a hunter, not me. I'm the Doctor! And you two are the Winchesters, the very important Winchesters who don't become very famous, well, not in a good way anyhow, until long after your time. I've read about you, you see," the self-proclaimed Doctor whipped out a battered copy of _Supernatural_, the book series. Dean's face turned red, and Sam worried that he might start shouting. Sam spoke quickly, in a low, serious voice.

"I don't know how you figured out those were real, but if you have something to do with Chuck disappearing…" The man was vigorously shaking his head 'no'. His boyish features looked old, suddenly, heavier than they had been before, and Sam got the sense, one he had become accustomed to over the years, that something about this person was definitely not human. Dean must have gotten the same feeling, because Sam could see him reach inside his jacket, gripping the demon knife, out of the corner of his eye.

"Look," Sam spoke in a low tone, "We don't know who you are or where you come from or even _what_ you are, but if you've read the books then you should know that right now would be a really good time to start talking."

"Oh boys, I'm not here to hurt you or anything! No! I'm not a demon or anything, not me," The man laughed quietly, as if the mere thought of it was ridiculous. "No, demons aren't really my area at all. Just shows how much I really know about the universe, right? I love this planet, spend a lot of time here actually, but ghosts and demons and all these monsters in the dark? They're all native to this one planet, this one planet, all complicated lore wrapped into itself… I've come against many things that don't belong on this world, but never something that does. Well, a few little things, but I never imagined it at this scale. Minor run in with heavenly warriors several hundred years ago, nothing major, mind you. Not like this. Normally I try not to meddle with the really big historic events, don't want to change too much, you know? But this is the last book of the series. I didn't realize, or else I would have ripped out the last page, of course, but now that I've read through it all and you hadn't both died, well, not permanently yet anyhow, I just had to know how the rest of the story went." He sighed happily and plopped his large head into his hands, looking like he expected them to start story time.

The brothers exchanged yet another look. Before they could take any action, a sharp rap sounded next to both their heads and all three men jumped, looking out the window into the parking lot. Castiel stood on the other side of the glass, made eye contact with each of the Winchesters, then turned and walked to wait by the Impala. The waitress swooped down on them as Dean reached for his jacket.

"Your check," she muttered unenthusiastically. Frowning, Dean fumbled for his wallet, but the man who called himself the Doctor tutted, whipping out a wallet of his own, holding some sort of badge up to the woman.

"No need for that darling, these boys are with me!" He beamed back at them, and if he expected looks of gratitude then he must have been disappointed, because instead he caught the brothers both staring at him as if he were insane. The waitress, however, had gasped at the badge, and backed off, clutching the bill to her stomach like they would have to pry it away from her if they really wanted it. She mumbled out apologies and continued backing away, dipping now and again, almost as if she were bowing. Sam and Dean watched the Doctor warily.

Grinning, the strange man flipped the thing in his hands around so the boys could see his badge. Dean's eyebrows lifted up and his lips pressed together, as if he were torn between trying not to be impressed and pure shock. Sam's expression didn't change at all. He looked at the Doctor, then at what he held in his hands, then his brother, then back to the Doctor, before stating,

"That is a blank piece of paper." Dean and the Doctor frowned in unison. Dean looked over questioningly at him, and the Doctor whipped the paper around to look at it, running his fingers over it as if there were something wrong with it.

"How? No, no it's working fine… How did you do that? With no training or anything…?" The Doctor looked at Sam helplessly, looking for a hint. No one said anything, and Sam finally broke the silence.

"You do realize I have no idea what you're talking about. Neither of us do. We don't know who you are, or how you did that, but something tells me you aren't exactly human, and non-humans don't sit very high on my list. So why don't we go outside, you can meet our friend out there, we'll see what he has to say, and we can all go from there. Alright?" Sam spoke as calmly as he could, not wanting to scare the stranger off. Who knew what that man was capable of. He seemed agreeable enough, bouncing up to let the boys out of the booth, waiting while Dean shrugged on his jacket, letting Sam lead the way out of the diner, Dean following watchfully from behind.

The stranger just seemed so excited to be in their company, bouncing across the parking lot between the two brothers, babbling about how surprised he had been to find out how much happened on earth that even he didn't know about. Dean walked several paces behind the man, his hand stuck inside his jacket, fingers curled around the knife, hoping the stranger wouldn't try to jump Sam. As they neared the Impala, which Castiel stood like a sentinel next to, the angel straightened, taking note of the third member of the arrivals. Getting closer, Dean saw Castiel cock his head to the side, narrowing his eyes at the stranger. When Sam and the stranger had reached just a few yards in front of him, Castiel strode forward, brushing past Sam as if he weren't there, and stopped, nose to nose, in front of the man. Dean stepped forward, bracing himself for he didn't know what, and he saw Sam do the same out of the corner of his eye.

The angel and the madman stood staring at each other, Castiel with a look of extreme concentration, the stranger with a look of mild confusion. A faint smile touched the corners of Castiel's mouth, and he laid a hand on the stranger's shoulder.

"Doctor. You wear a different face now. It has been a long time," Castiel smiled, friendly. The Doctor still looked vaguely lost, but then his face lit up and a wide grin broke out across it.

"Oh my – Castiel! Dear lord what's it been? Two, three hundred years? New face indeed, look at you! Never mind me, you were a woman the last time we met!" "Hold on, wait, you _know_ this guy?" Dean shouted, completely lost. Castiel nodded, the tired smile never leaving his face, his eyes never leaving the Doctor's.

"Yes. We met nearly seven hundred years ago, although I suppose it could only be a couple hundred, for a time traveler. And that was a very old vessel. This is my new vessel. I much prefer it, to be honest."

Sam and Dean exchanged bewildered glances at each other while the angel and the madman bantered.

"New vessel? Oh my dear Castiel, you mean to say that you take over the bodies of human beings?"

"Only if they permit it. I cannot take a vessel that does not agree to it."

"Oh, well that's… fine then. I suppose. Yes. Alright then. Well goodness it's good to see you again, it has been such a very long time! And with the Winchester boys! So exciting, so exciting, thought I would pop in and join up for an adventure or two, find out what all the hubbub is about…"

"Whoa there," Sam stepped in, "What is all this? How do you two know each other? Cas who _is_ this guy?"

The angel and the Doctor gave each other knowing glances, and the strange man's mouth twisted slightly, the ghost of a smile.

"I expect I know a better way to explain it all… why don't you just… come and step inside," he gestured knowingly to an odd telephone booth, dark blue and made of wood. Dean frowned, surprised that he hadn't taken note of it earlier. If was just sitting in parking lot, awkwardly taking up two spaces, just a little ways away from the Impala. Hesitantly, as though expecting a trick, the brothers both followed the Doctor to the booth. Sam walked around it, as if looking for some graffiti that could explain it all. Dean stopped a ways away, refusing to go any closer. Castiel was waiting patiently beside the doors for Sam to finish his inspection, and the Doctor turned back towards Dean, smiling, his eyes twinkling, as if he couldn't wait for what came next.

"This doesn't explain anything," Dean started gruffly, "So what? You've got a wooden box? I don't see what that's supposed to tell us."

The Doctor was still smiling, seeming as if he heard that a lot, and was just waiting for Dean to understand. It infuriated Dean, the fact that he couldn't see what was really going on.

"Well? Who are you? Right now you're just a, just a madman with a box." The Doctor's smile faltered, and the light in his eyes almost flickered. The grin faded and he looked sideways at Dean, considering. When he spoke, it was like he was just talking to himself, not intending for Dean to hear.

"Interesting… Not the typical, no, but… hmmm… I wonder…" The Doctor stepped up to the blue box, resting his hand on the door, gesturing Dean forwards cautiously, watching him carefully to see his reaction.

"Why don't you take a look inside?" And he pushed the door inwards.

**Thank you for reading! I know this chapter was shorter than the last, and yes I am aware that that neither Sherlock nor John appear in this chapter, but don't worry. I have hardly forgotten about them. I promise that I won't take so long to update again! Please leave reviews, let me know what you liked or didn't like, and if you think you have any good ideas for what could happen next, let me know and I might just write it in, if it fits with the main storyline. Thanks again, and I'll give you all a new chapter soon…**


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